Widow Woman

by Patricia McLinn

  Brujo, sides heaving, pushed through a last drift and into the relative shelter from the driving wind and snow offered by the protruding wheels of the stage. Nick slid awkwardly out of the saddle, his legs so stiff they didn’t feel connected to his body. He forced them to function as he sought footholds to scale the stage’s undercarriage, now a vertical wall. He used his arms to hoist himself to the top, then jerked open the door.

  The interior below was quiet, and so dark it took his eyes a heart-stabbing moment to adjust.

  Then he took in the dead embers of a small fire in the opening of the other window, now forming part of the floor of the enclosure. He sorted out deeper shadows in a corner to become a woman’s form, huddled under a cape and several lap robes.

  “Rachel.”

  It came a whisper now, as he dropped through the opening, his boots scattering the fire’s pitiful remains. Kneeling beside her, he jerked off a glove and slid his fingers along her neck. Her closed eyelashes didn’t lift from her pale cheeks, but he felt the blessed thrum of life under his fingers.

  He closed his eyes and drew in one deep, thankful breath. That was all he allowed himself.

  She was breathing. But she was cold, so damn cold.

  He had to get her blood flowing before he risked the trip to the shack. He pushed aside the robes and cloak, loosened her bodice by unbuttoning where his fingers cooperated and tearing when they didn’t, opened his own layers of coats, vest and shirts, then pulled her shoulders flush to his chest. She felt so cold against his flesh he had to fight the instinct to flinch away.

  Wrapping his clothes around both of them as best he could, he took off his gloves and rubbed her everywhere he could reach. Shoulders, arms, stomach, breasts, thighs. Trying to force warmth into her through the friction of his touch and sheer determination.

  Warmth whispered at his neck, and he realized she’d given a soft sigh. Holding her slightly away, he watched her eyelids lift, drift closed, then fight to rise again.

  “Rachel! Rachel, stay awake, dammit!”

  He rubbed harder, anywhere he could reach. Her eyelids fluttered and another sigh came.

  “Nick?” Her lips hardly moved, but he heard.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you . . . is this a dream?”

  “No. I’m here, Rachel. I’m going to get you out of this, but you have to help. You understand? Rachel! Goddammit, you stay awake.”

  Her eyes opened fully at last. “You called me Rachel.”

  “Yep.”

  Her brows dropped in disapproval. “You swore at me.”

  A hell of a time to want to grin. “I did that, too. You can fire me later. First, we get out of here. We have to get to the shack, but I need you to help. You understand?”

  She sat docilely as he rebuttoned her clothes, looking around for anything that might aid them.

  “Rub your hands together, Rachel. And try to move your feet.”

  Her movements were slow and awkward, but she was moving. Another hurdle passed.

  He hastily buttoned his clothes. She still rubbed her hands and shifted her feet under the layers of petticoats, skirt and robes. Her frown deepened in concentration.

  “The stage . . . Accident.”

  “I know.”

  “Horses . . . gone.”

  “I know. Now, listen, Rachel. We’re going to wrap you as warm as I can, then we’re going to ride Brujo to the shack. It’ll be cold and it might take a long time, but you can’t fall asleep again. You have to promise me that.” She didn’t answer. “Swear, Rachel,” he demanded harshly.

  “I swear.”

  “Okay. I’m going to look for things we can use. You stay here and keep moving.”

  He watched to make sure she obeyed, then scrambled out of the tilted coach. Brujo stamped and moved restlessly. They had to get moving soon before the frigid air stopped him, too. Without Brujo, neither he nor Rachel would have much chance; Rachel couldn’t walk to the shack, he couldn’t carry her all that way, and he wouldn’t leave her.

  Not caring whose name they bore. Nick ripped open the few cases in the boot of the stage. Only at the third did he find anything useful. A buffalo robe. Not big enough to go around both of them, but it would help protect Rachel. He dug again through the discarded cases and drew out a long length of fabric—a tablecloth maybe. With those and a satchel of what looked to be women’s clothing, he went to the front of the stage. As he’d hoped, the driver had kept a bag of oats under his seat for his horses.

  Nick fed Brujo while he lashed the satchel to the saddle, then he went for Rachel.

  Looking down from the doorway, he saw her movements had slowed to almost nothing, and her eyes had drifted closed.

  “Rachel!”

  “Don’t shout,” she grumbled.

  “Don’t fall asleep.”

  “I’m not.” But the protest weakened.

  “Prove it. Climb up here to me. Now. Come on, Rachel.”

  She looked dully at him a moment, then he saw the faintest flicker of her usual determination. She levered herself up from the angled seat. When she swayed, he had all he could do not to drop in through the door, scoop her up and carry her. But moving would get her warmer and he needed her trying as hard as he was to get them out of this alive.

  “Can’t you do it, Rachel?” he prodded.

  As he’d hoped, her jaw shifted as her teeth clamped tight. “I can do it.”

  Her gloved hands slipped from the frame twice, but finally she found purchase, and she half dragged herself, half pushed herself, numbed feet scrambling on the sloped seat, into the doorway. A gust sprayed snow into her face, almost knocking her back, but Nick grasped her around her waist and dragged her the rest of the way.

  Standing by Brujo, she swayed slightly as Nick arranged the buffalo robe and fabric as best he could.

  God, had forcing her to climb out been a costly, possibly deadly, mistake? He shoved aside the useless wondering with a mental curse. All he could do was go on.

  Rachel shivered as he guided her to step up on the side of the coach. Nick mounted then drew Brujo next to the makeshift mounting block.

  “Come on, Rachel. Grab hold of me.”

  She obediently put her arms out, sliding her hand around his neck, and he felt a sort of stitch in his chest as he gathered her in with his free arm.

  He settled her sideways in front of him, the robe wrapped to break the wind, then he slung the length of fabric around both their bodies and tied it fast. Even if she lost consciousness she’d stay on the horse—as long as he did.

  Then he put his attention to helping Brujo pick through the landscape of drifting, blowing snow.

  They’d gone about a quarter hour when she spoke.

  “Nick?”

  “Hmm?”

  “There was an accident.” She sounded considerably more alert than before. He hoped to God that was a good sign.

  “I know.”

  “The driver was sure he could get through. So sure . . . Last night, at the road ranch, he boasted, and drank while they changed horses. But the storm . . . Traces broke and the horses ran. I told Vaw to stay. We found wood, and we’d take turns tending a fire. I told him . . . If we just held on, you’d come by because the road’s in your section. He was scared, but I thought he’d stay. He said he would. I kept the fire going. When it was his turn I thought he’d calmed. I woke . . . the fire’d nearly died, he was gone. I got it going again, but wood went so fast, and I was so cold.”

  Her voice had grown faint and slightly forlorn. But the next words came stronger, full and determined against the tug of the wind and the icy pellets it threw at them.

  “We have to find him, Nick. The driver.”

  “I found him, Rachel.”

  “Oh. Well, we have to go help him.”

  “He’s dead.”

  For the first time in his life he wished he’d learned softer ways of saying things. Not because of the driver—the coward had abandoned Rachel in her sleep, leaving
her to die alone. But he felt the effect of his hard words on Rachel. When her silence became too much to bear, he went on, filling it best he knew how.

  “He was along the road. I followed his tracks to the stage. That’s how I found you.”

  Instinctively, his arms tightened, and she drew closer, settling against his chest in the protected cocoon he’d created.

  “I told him you’d find us. Why didn’t he wait?” she murmured. “Why didn’t he wait?”

  He let her stay silent then, as Brujo labored on slowly. Nick remained content to feel the rise and fall of her regular breathing against the arms he’d wrapped around her.

  Brujo stumbled, and Nick came alert with a jerk, his hands so numb in their thick gloves that it hurt to grasp the reins. He’d lost track of time. He prayed to a God he’d thought he’d left far behind that he—or Brujo—hadn’t lost the track.

  Squinting through the blowing snow, he fought the effects of fading light. Soon darkness would close in, a darkness without direction or guidance.

  He saw a huddled mass ahead.

  The shack.

  Not his imagination. It was too familiar, too real.

  “We made it, Rachel.”

  There was no answer.

  * * * *

  He delayed only long enough to throw a blanket over Brujo and hastily toss feed in a bucket in the shed before he carried Rachel to the shack.

  Inside, he set her gently on the chair. She sat up, her eyes open. The chair moved slightly with her weight.

  “You made it a rocker,” she said, in a reedy, faint voice. “Shag said you would.”

  “Yes. How do you feel? Rachel.”

  But she said nothing while he heated a rock and piled anything he had resembling a blanket onto the narrow bunk that served as his bed.

  “I’ll get you warm in a minute, Rachel.”

  The buffalo robe and length of cloth were so wet he tossed them into a corner. Her soaked outer clothes he treated with as little regard, in his haste ripping off more among the row of tiny buttons on the bodice. He tensed for a protest that never came. She stood, unresisting, as he unhooked her corset, stripping it off, followed by petticoats. That left her in only an unadorned chemise to below her knees.

  He draped a blanket over her while he slid the heated rock between the rough sheets. With the blanket still around her, he carried her to the straw-stuffed mattress and tucked the covers around her.

  “You rest now, Rachel. You’re safe.”

  He felt her eyes following him as he stoked the fire and laid out her clothes to dry.

  She watched him, too, as he drew on a dry pair of gloves and tied down his hat with a muffler.

  “I’ll be back soon as I tend the animals and bring in more wood. You sleep now.”

  Still, she said nothing.

  When he returned, she had fallen into a deep sleep. She didn’t stir even when he crawled into the narrow space beside her, and drew her close to him.

  The wind rose and fell like a song with no refrain. Through the long night he heard it whenever he roused himself to add wood to the fire. He heard it when he slid again into the bunk beside the quiet, chill form of Rachel Terhune, and wrapped himself around her to give whatever warmth he had. He heard it each time his body’s discomfort at the un-released pleasure of having her pressed against him pulled him out of sleep and to a reality of frustration.

  He heard it the next day when he woke near noon, ate a meal of salt-cured pork, dried apples and coffee, watching her to see if sound or smell would wake her. They didn’t.

  And he threw himself against it after he drew on his heavy clothing and waded through biting, swirling needles of snow. In the shed he fed the horses and broke the crust of ice on their water. Then he breached the wind’s rage once more to arrive, gasping at its ferocity, inside the single room.

  Still Rachel Terhune slept.

  And when she finally did start to wake, he wished she’d slept on.

  Her first sound, a moaning sigh, brought him to the edge of the bunk, where he stopped. Unsure. She moved—small, quick jerks as if in pain. Her mutters and cries held, now and then, a word or phrase or name he recognized—Pa, Mama, Shag, Ruth, all came and went.

  “Rachel! Mrs. Terhune.”

  She didn’t respond.

  It was like watching someone fight against drowning, and having the rope you threw fall short.

  A string of cold slid along his back. He couldn’t stand to watch anymore. He grasped her shoulders and pulled her upright, close enough to see the faint blue veins in her lowered eyelids.

  “Rachel! Rachel, you wake up now! It’s Nick, Nick Dusaq, and I’m ordering you, dammit. You hear me?”

  Her eyelids fluttered, and Nick felt more afraid than he had when he first found her. Then he’d had only nature to fight. Now, he wasn’t sure what he fought.

  “Rachel! Dammit, you’ve slept enough!”

  “Nick? Nick will come . . .”

  Still gripping her with one arm, he used his other hand to turn her face fully to his. “I did come. I’m here. Goddammit to hell, Rachel, wake up!”

  Her eyelids flickered again, then rose more slowly. “Nick. Oh . . .”

  He watched reality and remembrance flood her eyes, stinging them with tears.

  “The storm.”

  “Yes, I found you.”

  “I remember,” she said slowly. “The driver . . .” She remembered that, too. Tears broke free and raced down her cheeks. “I thought I was going to die.”

  He changed his hold, cradling her against his chest and rocking her as tears gave birth to sobs that shook her. She turned into him, seeking warmth in pure instinct. Through the thin material of her chemise he felt the cold still, a cold that came from much deeper.

  He lifted her with an arm behind her back, the other under her knees, taking along as many of the bunk’s coverings as he could. With the toe of one boot, he dragged the chair as close as he dared to the hot-burning fire, then sat with her in his lap. Leaning over the arm, he grabbed another log and threw it haphazardly onto the blaze, then set to tucking the trailing blankets around her.

  All the while, she curled against him, face into his chest, hands fisted around the material of his shirt, and sobbed, until he thought he could feel the moisture through his thick woolen shirt and cotton undershirt.

  Fragments of words and phrases that littered her sobs told him these tears represented a debt accumulated over long years. They were for the bereavement and confusion at her mother’s death, sorrow and frustration at her father’s decline, anger and humiliation at her husband’s cruelty, burden and worry at her ranch’s struggles.

  He rocked and held her, and gradually she quieted.

  He was aware of the smooth curve of her buttocks resting against him. He was aware of the warmth and weight of her breasts next to him. He was aware of the dark outline of her nipple pressed against the thin cloth, so close to where his arm wrapped around her.

  He kept rocking.

  After a while, she shifted so her cheek rested against his chest.

  “Nick?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you ever thought you were going to die?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did . . . Were you scared?”

  “No. I wouldn’t have minded dying then.”

  She absorbed that in silence, then raised her head to look at him. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her skin, still so pale, showed patches of irritation from the hot tears and the scratch of his wool shirt. Her lips were slightly swollen and chapped from the storm.

  “Thank you, Nick. For not dying.”

  He brushed his lips against hers, meaning only to console her, to give her another bit of warmth. It should have been nothing. Not after the beating both their bodies had taken the past days. Not with her emotions so raw. Not with his insides churning from the sound of her sobs.

  But for him it was the heat of Jasper Pond and Christmas again in an instant. Like the flare of a match,
one touch and fire.

  She must have felt it, too, because she gave a small gasp. Just enough to part her lips under his. He slid his tongue along that opening, then inside, seeking her warmth as she had his, though from a different instinct. She met his entry with a swift, soft touch of her tongue. He followed her retreat, luring her into more touches, which grew longer, less skittish, until he made a retreat of his own, and she followed.

  Her tentative exploration of his mouth gained confidence with each second, and each second cost Nick an hour’s control. Open-handed, he rubbed his palm rhythmically around the point of her shoulder, fighting the urge to grab a fistful of her chemise the way she had his shirt. Only he wouldn’t hold on, he’d take off.

  Her tongue’s stroking forays soon followed the rhythm set by his hand, and it was too powerful to ignore.

  He pulled away to change the angle of the kiss and glimpsed her eyes, bemused with desire. His tongue stroked and she responded. Her hands had opened against his chest, but ventured no further. He led one around his neck, then slid a palm to her shoulder, down her back to her hip.

  He’d never had much use for a man who didn’t keep command of himself—in a fight, on the range, with a woman. Now he knew the danger of running out all the rope on control, so it stretched full out and taut as a bowstring.

  It could have been the physical punishment taken in the storm. It could have been the long months without a woman. It could have been the scare she’d put into him.

  He feared it was her.

  Her hands had found their way now, one into his hair at his collar, the other around the top button of his shirt to flirt with bare skin. She shifted in his lap, an innocent caress that had decidedly uninnocent results. He was aching and hard, and he’d wanted to touch this woman all over since she’d taken a deep breath and sighted down a rifle at him eight months before.

  He molded his palm to cup the weight of her breast, skimming his thumb across the tip. Her nipple immediately beaded harder, a reaction that struck straight to his groin.

  Bending his head, he wet the darker circle through the cloth, then took her nipple in his mouth, and sucked.

  She bucked, then arched, and he paid the same service to her other breast